Citizen Eames
by IconofSelfIndulgence
Summary: An AU fanfic based off Citizen Kane where Eames is Kane and Arthur is Leland. Follow their tragic love story as it coincides with the movie and then takes its own turn for the worst. Warning: Homosexuality and character deaths.


Sunlight glistened in through the windows of the Inquirer's headquarters. Two gentlemen, along with their small entourage, entered the building. One was of a slightly larger build with a very handsome face with precious, smiling eyes. The expression on his face was one of joy and excitement, for in fact he had just bought the whole damn place on an impulse. Suddenly, the urge to own a newspaper overcame him, and to spite his guardian he bought the whole damn chain. Charles Foster Eames was not your ordinary twenty-five year old. He had been kicked out of many of the best American institutions—including Harvard, Yale, and Columbia—and then decided that his time was better spent abroad. This was his return to America, a place that he had come to know well in his younger years. The man on his left was considerably thinner than him but was just as handsome. He looked a little more professional than the great Charles Foster Eames with his hair slicked back, straight posture, and suit neatly pressed. This was Eames' greatest friend, Arthur Leland. The two had met in Harvard and become inseparable since. There was nowhere that Eames could go without his dearest cohort. And, surprisingly enough, it was Arthur that the former owners of the Inquirer approached and enthusiastically shook hands with.

"Mr. Eames! It is so good to finally meet you!"

Arthur was taken aback, but Eames spoke above him as he tried to apply. Their conversation was confused and incoherent, and for another minute longer the confusion lasted before Eames finally said, "Excuse me—_I _am Mr. Eames." Then he casually shook the men's hands, brushing off the mistaken identity. He shrugged off the apologies with a nonchalant grin before motioning for Arthur to come forward. "Sirs, I would like you to meet my oldest friend, Mr. Arthur Leland." He spoke cordially with his distinct accent. It was a mix of an English and American accent, for Eames had been born in England but had been taken to America when he was "still in his lad years" as he had put it when Arthur asked years ago about his strange speech patterns.

"Mr. Eames," chimed another voice behind them, and the men turned to find another man on the hefty side looking a bit nervously at the crowd. He glanced over his shoulder before looking back at Eames. "We're waiting for your OK, sir." This was Yusuf, Eames' other friend. Yusuf had been with Eames since they met in Mombasa, and Eames had taken him in as an assistant. Arthur could clearly remember that day, too. It had been humid and dry, and Yusuf had rushed into where they had been tanning. He had been chased by a group of drug dealers, and Eames dealt with the quickly. Yusuf had no family, and he had no way out of Mombasa (It was another story on how he got there in the first place.) so Eames took him in. Yusuf, in turn, worshipped the ground he walked on.

"Oh, yes," Eames turned his attention back to the owner, as he spoke, "And where is your private office, Mister-?"

"Cobb. Dominic Cobb, Mr. Eames. Just this way!"

This is where Eames pointed, and Yusuf guided the movers into the office. They brought in furniture and statues—Mr. Eames had a fondness for Renaissance sculptors. This did cause quite a ruckus, since Mr. Cobb did not particularly like the fact that Eames was going to actually live in his office, and Arthur found himself chuckling in the background. He knew how much Eames could be. He did have a very explosive personality after all.

It was later that night when Arthur found himself without his tie, sitting on the desk of Eames' office with a glass of champagne in hand. He and Eames were laughing and celebrating alone—much like they always had. They clinked glasses together, and before Arthur knew it he was drunk. He and Eames were leaning a little too close to each other.

"Arthur," Eames spoke sincerely, brushing his fingers through Arthur's somewhat grimy hair. "This is a new experience for us." He rested his nose against the thinner man's shoulder. Arthur sighed into his embrace and closed his eyes, just listening as he spoke. "And I'm very glad that I'm conquering this new ordeal with you."

"Mm," Arthur inhaled his cologne and nuzzled against him a little more. It was not natural for them to be so close to each other, but it had always been this way when no one else was around. They had almost an unspoken relationship. They had never really done anything, nothing more than this, but Arthur knew that Charles would be lost without him. And Charles knew just how lost Arthur would be without him. "You're always so impulsive, Charlie." Arthur mused, turning to brush his lips against the other's head. "You're lucky to have me around to keep you in check."

"You don't keep me in check, Artie, and you know it." Eames laughed softly, poking him playfully in the side. "You encourage me the majority of the time." He noticed that Arthur squirmed when he was poked, and Eames got a terrible idea. He began to tickle the other mercilessly, resulting in Arthur laughing and trying to push him away.

The struggling got quite violent, and in the next instant they were on the floor, gasping for breath. Eames was on top of the smaller Arthur, and their faces were extremely close—to the point of touching. Both were at a loss for words, too intoxicated to realize what was wrong with this current situation. They were frozen in those positions; Eames had Arthur pinned to the floor, and Arthur was clutching Eames' shirt tightly. It felt like an eternity passed before one of them decided to move, and it was naturally Eames who made the first move. He leaned in, closing the gap by centimeters, and pressed a soft kiss against the corner of Arthur's mouth. He paused afterwards, worried about the other's reaction.

It was no secret to Arthur how he felt about his closest adversary. Was it love? Arthur wasn't sure, but he knew he felt something for the other man. But, it was looked down upon in their day, and Eames had a higher economic standing than many, which meant he was in the spotlight all of the time—especially when he made careless choices. There was no room for Arthur in his life; he needed a woman at his side—a trophy wife—and Arthur knew that well. That was why he suddenly pushed the other man away, breathing heavily, tears glistening in his exhausted eyes. "No," He whispered to the bigger man. Then, he got up, and he left quickly, slamming the door behind him.

Eames sat there on the wooden floor, confusion written all over his face. He was silent, trying to sort out his thoughts. He was trying to decipher the enigma that was Arthur Leland. He did know one thing about his friend that was definite and unfortunate: Arthur had a drinking problem. Did this complicate things? Maybe. He would have to see. He himself was on the verge of shitfaced, so he decided to drag himself to bed in the office. He would deal with this in the morning. Arthur was a lot to handle at times, too, and Eames would have none of it right now. He wouldn't let the little bugger ruin his night. He climbed into the bed and threw the cover over his head…

* * *

><p>It had been a couple of days since the incident between the two drunken men. In this time, Arthur became distant—not in the physical sense but in the emotional sense. He tried to play off his friendship as merely—well—<em>friendship. <em>It wasn't obvious that anything was bothering him, so no one decided to ask. Eames, on the other hand, perturbed by his best friend's actions. Surely, he had done something wrong to upset Leland; therefore, he had to find a way to win back the other's heart. (Literally. Charles Foster Eames did not give up easily.) They were both sitting in Eames' cluttered office. The owner was perched on his bed while the best friend was hovering over paperwork. Charlie was watching Arthur silently as he read whatever he was reading. And that was when an idea hit him.

"Artie," chimed the jovial male as he slid off the bed and onto his feet. "I've an idea."

"Another one?" retorted Arthur without even looking up from his text.

"Aye."

"Shoot—but I'm not sure if I'm going to approve of another one of your cockamamie ideas, Charlie."

Eames pouted at Arthur for that but quickly brushed it off as if nothing had been said. He cleared his throat before saying, "I think I should make a mandate—a promise to my readers. Some type of declaration, y'know?"

Arthur's attention was suddenly on Eames, and the thinner male watched him curiously as if weighing out the idea. "Charlie, I'm impressed," He stated, at which Eames playfully scoffed. "Go on."

The billionaire sat down on the corner of his desk, crossing his arms casually. "I want my readers to know who's responsible for giving them this information. And I also want them to know that I will always give them the truth," He answered, his gaze concentrated on the frosted window of the office. Arthur's eyes were trained on him, and then he awkwardly tapped his pencil against the desk.

"That's wonderful. I may just have to save this moment in my head forever." He said while giving Eames a wonderful shit-eating grin. Eames gently whacked him upside the head, and the two laughed before getting to work.

Yusuf and Cobb stared over the rambunctious male's shoulder as he wrote his declaration in incorrect English. Eames, as Arthur recalled, had always been a horrible speller. He had beautiful cursive penmanship, but spelling was just not natural to him (which Arthur never understood, since Eames had been educated in the most astute institutions.) Cobb was the first to speak as the younger man wrote, "I don't know what you're doing, Mr. Eames."

"Isn't it obvious, Mr. Cobb?" chimed Yusuf as he smiled widely.

"Not exactly. A 'Declaration of Principles?'" replied Dom, "Is it really necessary?"

"I believe it's a wonderful idea," Arthur spoke softly, resting against the chair while watching Eames like a hawk. "Daily is spelled with an 'i,' Charles."

"Crap," murmured Eames as he scribbled away.

"Mr. Cobb," Yusuf addressed him, "you see, Mr. Eames has his own way of doing things. He feels the need to communicate with his readers directly—in fact, I ponder that he believes that will also up sales."

"Not just that," Eames retorted. "I do want to let my readers know that it is the truth and nothing but the truth that they are getting."

Arthur snorted under his breath and shook his head. "This is good," He mused. "I think I'll keep it when you're done, Eames."

"Yeah?" Eames asked, scribbling his next statement down. "And why's that?"

"This is a work of art." He cleverly replied.

Cobb sighed heavily in the background and snatched the paper up once Eames signed it. "One: I will provide the—" He paused speaking, struggling to read the billionaire's chicken-scratch, "people of this city with a daily paper that will tell all the news honestly. Two: I will also provide them with a fighting and tireless champion of their rights as citizens and as human beings." Cobb shrugged his shoulders slightly, trying to sort through incoherent thoughts. "It's quite poetic," He finally managed to say, which only made Arthur smile a bit more.

"All right, all right." Eames said, snatching it out of Dom's hand. "Nash, come here." The young man approached and was thrown the piece of paper. "I need you to print this in the next issue. Title: 'My Declaration of Principles'. Got it?" With a nod, Nash was gone.

It wasn't long until Arthur had gotten the original copy of that declaration and kept it. It basically only held sentimental value, but for some reason it just felt like it meant something much more to him. Maybe it was because of this disgusting feeling in his lower stomach that came every time Eames was around. He nearly choked of it in front of him from time to time and secretively cursed himself for liking such an individual. Was it really that hard to find someone better? It couldn't be. There were many good women out there. Woman with curvy bodies, succulent breasts…

But there would be no other like Charles Foster Eames. Arthur glanced at the declaration and then folded it into his pocket. He wanted it for safekeeping, just in case Charlie ever did forget the goals of the Inquirer—just in case Charles ever lost himself.

Cobb and Yusuf left the room to continue their work. This gave Eames his chance to confront Arthur about his abrupt leaving several nights ago. He approached the smaller man in the chair with his hands casually in his pockets, standing directly behind him and giving him no way to escape. He leaned in closely before speaking softly into his ear. "Arthur, darling, you've been brushing me off. Have I done something to upset you?"

Arthur froze in his seat, losing his breath for a second when he felt the closeness of the other man. He swallowed, trying to concentrate again on his work. "No, Mr. Eames." He replied as he kept his eyes trained on the papers in front of him.

"When did we decide to speak in such formalities, Arthur?" Eames questioned, almost sounding hurt by the other's professional use of his name.

"When I decided that we are coworkers, Mr. Eames."

"So, we're no longer friends?"

"Perhaps after-hours."

"Are you really going to act like this, Artie?"

"Yes, Charles. It's not healthy for us to pursue whatever… that was. Okay?" Arthur retorted quickly, glaring back at him.

Eames examined his expression with a pout, but he would respect Arthur's wishes. Though, it was very rare for Charles Foster Eames not to get what he wanted.

It had been weeks since Eames' declaration, and ratings were soaring for the Inquirer. However, the Chronicle was doing nearly 150% better than it. And Charles Foster Eames was always the competitive type. However, instead of playing rough with the owners of the Chronicle, he did just the opposite. His policy: if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Or, in his case: if you can't beat them, make them work for you. It didn't take much to sway their opinions, which just showed how persuasive Charles Foster Eames could be. Arthur stood on the sidelines as the Chronicle's leading members sat for a picture with Eames, wondering what the hell had been said in those agreements. Since their little talk, Eames and Arthur had been more distant; therefore, Arthur had not heard all of the bragging from the newspaper tycoon. Although this thought depressed him, he wore a wide smile on his face. This would be better for both of them.

It would.

* * *

><p>That evening, Eames called for a celebration. The previous members from the Chronicle were all there and seated at a large table set up for them at a catering hall. Eames was at the head of the table with Arthur at his right. Yusuf sat on Eames' left, while Dominic Cobb sat next to him. On Arthur's left was a man named Robert Fischer, the former owner of the Chronicle. On Fischer's left was another man named Peter Browning. Arthur didn't know much about him besides the fact that he was Fischer's right-hand man. He had begun to chat with the two about their visions for the Inquirer while others were discussing other prattle.<p>

Finally, the noise simmered down as Eames rose to toast the crowd. "Gentleman, lend me your ears for just a moment. A monumental thing has occurred today for the Inquirer; we have gained assets beyond our wildest dreams. Together, I believe we can reshape the Inquirer into the most-read paper in the United States!" The crowd erupted into cheers.

Wait a tick. Arthur didn't like that statement. His curious eyes glanced up at the rosy man standing next to him. That didn't sound like Charles Foster Eames. What happened to giving the people the truth? He pursed his lips together but remained quiet. He could confront him later. Meanwhile, Eames pulled out a cigar from his breast pocket and lit it. He was about to sit down when Yusuf stood, motioning for Dom to follow him. "Mr. Eames, Mr. Cobb and I would like to thank you in a very special way. Come on out, girls!"

Everyone's attention turned to the group of women dressed in revealing clothing. Each of them was more beautiful then the next. Arthur sat horrified as they grabbed Eames and began to sing and dance around him. He turned around, looking away as the other men whistled and called at the girls. He reached for the bottle of champagne and poured himself more, having already downed his glass after Eames' toast.

A few glasses later, Arthur was tipsy. He sat grumpily at the table, scowling as the other men enjoyed themselves. Only once did he look over his shoulder to see if Eames was still stuck in the clump of women. He was. Though, the other did notice him when he turned. A frowned lined Eames' pouty lips, but Arthur had looked away before he could do anything.

Yusuf willingly gave his glass to Arthur when he saw the other's distress. By now, Arthur was drunk. Eames was laughing in the background with his lady friends. Though, he finally had enough and returned to the table. His hand lingered on Arthur's shoulder before he sat down next to him. "Enjoying yourself, Artie?" He playfully asked before noticing Arthur's inebriation.

"I'm fine, Eames." Arthur slurred.

"Er," Eames didn't believe that one bit. He put his hand on the other's shoulder. "Arthur, stay here tonight. You can sleep in my bed in the office. I think you should go now." He subtly motioned to the office door, eyeing the slender man carefully.

"I'm fine." Arthur repeated, shrugging the hand off him.

"Please?"

How could Arthur say no to that sincerity in Eames' eyes? He swallowed and then slowly nodded his head. He got up and stumbled in the direction of the office, leaving the noise behind him. Arthur closed the door and rested against it, breathing heavily. The world was beginning to spin around him, but honestly he liked not being in control. He felt that he was always in control, keeping track of everything Eames did. This was a nice reprieve from all of that tension and worrying. He took a step forward, then another, before everything went black.

Eames waved goodnight to his new team and pushed the door to his office open. The lights were off, so he assumed that Arthur was already sleeping on the bed. After a few steps, though, Charlie realized that that wasn't the case, because he heard a loud groan from whatever he stepped on. "Arthur?" He whispered, crouching down to the dark blob on the floor. The smaller man was curled up, hugging himself. "Hey, hey," Eames murmured, rubbing his shoulder a bit. "Artie?" He asked and watched those exhausted eyes open. "Are you all right, Artie?" He placed his hand on the other's cheek.

"M'drunk," Arthur slurred nonchalantly, as if it were obvious. "Where 'm I?"

"On the floor, love," Eames responded, helping the other into a sitting position. "Come now, let's get you to the bed, Artie." He slid his arm under Arthur's knees and kept his other on the small of the other's back, and then he carefully lifted Arthur up bridal style. He held onto Eames' tightly.

"Eames, the world is spinning," Arthur whispered, hiding his face into the other's neck. "It's too much."

"What's too much, darling?" Eames asked, resting him down against the bed. He unbuttoned his own jacket and tossed it aside—not caring where it landed.

"Everything."

Arthur had turned on his side, away from Eames. The Brit sighed heavily before placing his hand on Arthur's side, gently rubbing it. He could see the American was beginning to relax. "Come now," He murmured, leaning in to breathe softly against his neck. Arthur tensed, letting out a soft whine. "You can tell me what's wrong." He kissed the skin softly. "I'm here…" He moved his hand under Arthur's shirt.

"Charlie—" Arthur began, but Eames had turned him around and was kissing down his neck. "N—"

"Shhh… It's all right. I'm here."

With that, Eames kissed him. Arthur hesitantly responded, and the world around them began to fade. Charles Foster Eames always got what he wanted. Always.

* * *

><p>Fortunately, Arthur had no recollection of that night. Unfortunately, Arthur had no recollection of that night. Eames didn't dare bring it up. How could he? He had—for lack of a better word—forced Arthur into sex while the other was intoxicated. It was unforgivable. He could hear the other whining in his ear, saying he was too tired—that he didn't want it. Eames still kept going, and it was blissful. The power had him on an adrenaline high; he thrived on it. (Though, something did nag at him deep within, telling him that taking advantage of Arthur—<em>no, the situation, Eames reassured<em>—was wrong.)

But, when Arthur confronted him about a week later asking him what happened, Eames couldn't lie. "Artie," he said casually, wrapping his arm around the American's shoulders. "Come, let's have a chat."

"Eames, I don't want to chit-chat with you." Arthur's tone was that of solemnity. He knew something was up and—as smart as he was—was beginning to put two and two together. "What happened that night? I have had this unique sore in my ass for days. There had been blood in my underwear." Eames grimaced at that statement. Had he actually made Arthur bleed? He wasn't heartless—he hadn't meant to hurt Arthur.

"Artie, well, you are a horny little bugger when you're drunk." Eames lied through his teeth without missing a beat. Blaming this on Arthur was the perfect plan.

Then again, if that was the case, then why did he feel the guilt swelling in his chest when Arthur's face paled? He swallowed, watching his face contort as if he was trying to solve a complex riddle. "Was I? It's all a blur, Charles." He said after his contemplation while Eames was trying to come up with a better lie.

"It's no big deal, Artie. You wanted it. I wanted it. What's wrong with it?" Eames responded with a little nudge.

"No. Charlie, this can't happen. Nothing can happen between you and me."

The frightened look on Arthur's face shot an arrow through Eames' heart. He opened his mouth to try and respond to the frantic-looking individual, but he couldn't find the words to say. "Why not?" He finally asked, trying not to sound as hurt as he felt.

"It would ruin your image, Charles," Arthur whispered as he glanced over Eames' shoulder to Yusuf and Cobb working. "You know that."

"I don't care." Eames persisted.

"I do." Arthur retorted.

With a heavy sigh, Eames gave in. "So, what shall we do?"

"I want you to send me abroad. Some time apart will do us good, Charles."

Well, there was no turning away from that one. Eames felt like he had no other choice. Arthur's eyes were twinkling with determination. He rubbed a hand over his stubbly face before shaking his head. "No, that won't do," He retaliated, "I will the be that one who goes abroad." When Arthur had no reply, he added, "Because I need to add to my collection anyway. It feels a little empty in there after Yusuf accidently shattered Medusa. And I need you to stay here and make sure things are running smoothly. All right?"

There was no countering Eames. He always did what he wanted anyway. So, Arthur nodded his head at the other's declamation. That was that.

* * *

><p>During Eames' time away, Arthur's drinking problem progressed. There was a simple explanation for this: he remembered. He could remember the other soothing him as he pleaded him to stop. Albeit, Arthur did want it—deep, deep down he wanted Eames so badly. However, in this day and age, it was not right. They would never be accepted, and he wanted Eames to have the world. If Eames had Arthur in the way they both wanted, then everything would be ruined. His reputation would go down the pits, and there would be no hope for him ever succeeding in the public eye ever again.<p>

Arthur couldn't have that, so he endured. He tried not to let his drinking ailment affect him at work, but he knew as soon as he got off from the job he'd have a beer in his hand. Being inebriated in the safeness of his own home was something he got used to in the months that Charles Foster Eames traveled the world. He had not the slightest clue as to what would happen once Eames returned. He doubted he could hide this flaw from the ever-so-observant Brit. Arthur could only cross his fingers and hope to God that Eames had changed and became a little more passive during his stay in God-knows-where.

The only reason why this worried him so much was because Eames was returning now. A frustrated Arthur sat in his office, patiently waiting to see the man of his dreams. Instead of keeping Arthur's feelings at bay, Eames' trip made Arthur even more in love with him. What was that saying? _Absence makes the heart grow fonder. _"That's such bullshit." Arthur murmured under his breath as he put his hands over his face.

"I'm terribly sorry?" Yusuf's voice chimed in from the door. Arthur quickly sat up and waved his hand, indicating it was nothing. Yusuf either respected his privacy or didn't care because he continued: "Mr. Eames is waiting patiently for you on the main floor. He's just returned. He also said that he's in a rush and hopes that you can come urgently." The perturbed Arthur sat there for only a second more before hastily standing up.

"It's always on his time, isn't it? Charles Foster Eames has not changed one bit, it seems."

Eames was standing there, his face full with a very scruffy beard. He looked even hotter than he had when he left. Arthur gawked at the defined muscles under that tailored suit. Eames caught his gaze and gave a hearty laugh before clapping the other on the shoulder. "Artie Leland! It's been ages."

"Yes. Yes, it has, Charlie."

It was at this time that Arthur resisted the urge to hug Eames tightly and whisper sweet nothings in his ear. He wanted nothing more than to tell Eames that he missed him with every fiber of his being and that he had become so miserable without Eames that he resulted to drinking. However, he couldn't. Not here—not in front of these people. Arthur cleared his throat and gave him a courteous nod.

Eames noticed the change in behavior of his friend, but there was no inquiring about it now. He had something very important to tell Arthur and the rest of them. He rubbed the other's shoulder gently and looked into Arthur's averted eyes. "I've got important news to tell," he said softly while moving away from his old companion, "I'm getting married."

At the moment Arthur felt his whole world crash around him; however, he kept his gaze on the floorboards. The group around him erupted into cheers, and Yusuf called out, "To whom, Mr. Eames?"

"A lovely lady by the name of Mallory Norton."

"Mallory Norton?" Cobb asked quickly. "Isn't she—"

"The President's niece," Arthur whispered under his breath. He was frozen in place. His eyes were trained on the floor; he was lost in his own little world. Eames seemed to be the only one to hear the whisper and, chagrined, turned his attention away from Arthur.

"The President's niece!" Yusuf chimed over him. "Just how did you manage to nag that one, Mr. Eames!"

"That's a story for another day, gentlemen. I must be off now!" Eames was on his way out, putting his hat on. He didn't look back, no matter how much he wanted to. He stopped in the doorframe, knowing all eyes were on him right now.

Arthur finally found himself staring at Charles' back. His heart was in his throat. No one noticed as he slowly stepped backward, beginning to hide in the shadows of the room. Eames was getting married. He was succeeding in the world in the way Arthur had hoped he would. If this was what Arthur wanted for his best friend, then why was there this pain in his chest? Why were tears stinging his eyes? He gasped when his back touched the wall, and he hastily tried to find the doorknob to his office. Eames was so far away from him.

There was no going back now.

Eames left as the door to the office slammed shut.

* * *

><p>Arthur stared at the bottle of whiskey in front of him. It was the plague of his life and the poison feeding his very soul. His slender fingers brushed against the cold glass bottle, and a sad smile formed on his face. He exhaled a sigh of relief. It was his only comfort now. Eames had long since moved out of the office and into a home with his family. To his knowledge, they were happy, and that was all that he could wish for.<p>

That's what he kept telling himself anyway.

It was not what he wanted. For years, he allowed himself to be in Eames' shadow, watching him as he attained his happiness. (Arthur had to wonder, though, if Eames was really happy.) He longingly watched as the man gained political power and social status. The people loved him. They loved him and cherished the ground that he walked on. Or they had until they found that he had an affair with the aspiring singer Ariadne Alexander.

Arthur laughed. It was a pretty fucked up situation. He and Eames had grown very distant now. His hands covered his face, and he lowered his head onto the wooden bar. Eames lost the election, and Arthur knew that the politician-wannabe would be here to join him soon. In a time of crisis, Eames would come back to him—and that was the most fucked up part of this. He wouldn't confront anyone else except for Arthur Leland, his closest friend. The exhausted man reached for the bottle again and downed whatever was left. He was drunk, and he didn't give a shit.

It wasn't long until the door creaked open behind him. "I'm drunk," Arthur slurred from his seat. He turned around to look at the gloomy figure in the shadow of the door. "I'm drunk, Charlie."

Eames was silent as he trudged into the bar. His hair was graying now. He was older; they both were. His eyes met Arthur's glazed hues, and he laughed. He just laughed. Arthur only stared, watching the other man breaking before him. "This is insanity, Charlie." Arthur said over the laughter. "You knew you were fucked when that story got printed. Why didn't you just drop out?"

"Because I knew I had a chance!" Eames roared suddenly, punching the beam next to him. "I had their support until the very end, Arthur! Were you blind to see it?"

An eerie silence filled the room.

Arthur shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I want to move to Chicago."

"You can't leave me, Arthur." Eames chimed, staring at him. "I won't allow it."

"I need a change of scenery, Charles." Arthur retorted, meeting his eyes again. The silence quickly returned.

"I won't have it," Eames said again, quieter. Arthur watched as the emotional walls came crumbling down.

"_I need you."_

* * *

><p>Arthur had been under the influence that after Eames' emotional statement in the bar that things would get better between them. Well, wasn't that a load of bullshit! Their relationship became even more strained after his divorce with Mal. (He sympathized with that woman. They had lunch on multiple occasions, because he still had a good relationship with her unlike her former husband.) He was still watching Eames on the sidelines, watching the monster that form from the power consuming Charles Foster Eames.<p>

It only took one night for the tension to finally break the bond. The fight had been ugly. There had been a lot of screaming involved, and Eames had slammed Arthur into a wall. When the other got into his face, Arthur lost it and punched him. The surprised stopped Eames from advancing further, and before he could react Arthur was out the door with the words, "Fuck you. I'm leaving for Chicago." The door slammed shut loudly, leaving Eames alone.

The aging man stared at his hands in his solitude. What had the fight even been about? It was over something so menial that he couldn't remember it now. Had it been worth his friendship with Arthur? Had it been worth losing the man that had meant so much to him at one point in his life? He hesitantly looked over to the door. There was no going after Arthur now; the other was long gone. What was there to do about that? He decided to let Arthur have the post in Chicago and doubled his pay. Maybe that would fix some things between them. Money, after all, was a powerful thing.

He decided to marry Ariadne. The wedding was small, but it had been even more wonderful than Eames' first wedding day. Arthur's seat had been left empty, whereas last time Arthur had been his best man. Times had definitely changed. After they started living together, Eames got Ariadne voice lessons. He was fascinated with her, even though she only had a mediocre voice. Arthur couldn't sing either, but it was something Eames loved listening to. He missed Arthur more and more as the days went on. It was certainly different not seeing him at the office. It had been that same way for over ten years—not counting his brief trip to Europe. What he missed the most was just having the other there. They didn't talk much, but when Arthur was there, Eames felt more relaxed. Now he didn't have that.

Though, he tried not to let that bother him. Instead, he would watch his wife sing to her heart's content. He sat in their living room, watching her sing with her coach. It was a melodious tune; she was getting better. All of his hard work and patience was paying off. "Ariadne!" He called out once she stopped singing. "Love, you are phenomenal." He watched as his wife only nodded her head and turned away. Something was wrong. No—no, of course nothing was wrong. She had to be happy! How could she not be happy? He had given her everything a woman could want—money, jewelry, social status… He rolled his eyes. What an ungrateful bitch. He'd make sure she was happy, though, because he was a kind man.

His butler James walked into the room holding a letter. "Mr. Eames, you have a letter from Mr. Leland." James said as he hesitantly held out the note to him. Eames' eyes had narrowed, and he snatched the envelope from his butler's hands. What more could that troublemaker want? He should have been well off now in Chicago. While grumbling he opened the envelope. Eames could not hide the surprise on his features when he pulled his declaration out of it.

"This is," He said softly, brushing his thumb over the aged paper. This was the declaration he had made years ago; it was his promise to the people. He could feel his hands shaking and placed the paper down. The envelope dropped to the floor as he covered his face. Ariadne didn't notice (or didn't care) as her husband experienced his little emotional breakdown. Eames was hyperventilating. Why would Arthur send this to him? Had he really lost his ideals? Had he changed that much? Eames pulled his hands away from his face and stared at them intently. "What have I become?" He asked under his breath. "What have I done?"

It was he who drove Arthur away. It was he who destroyed his own reputation. It was he who forgot his own promises. It was he who let the money and power destroy him slowly day by day by day… Eames grimaced and sunk against the chair. "What have I done?" He whispered again. "What have I done?"

Arthur. He missed Arthur more than he could ever admit. Honestly, he felt empty without the other man in his life. How could he have let Arthur slip away? Why did he hurt him? There were so many questions running through Eames' mind, and he could answer none of them. Though, he did come to one conclusion. He needed to contact Arthur—right now. He got up, but as he did he noticed another piece of paper on the floor peeking out of the envelope. Eames picked it up and nearly ripped it as he hastily opened the note. His eyes scanned over the neat handwriting. Eames was silenced by the other's note; he could feel every emotion that Arthur had when he wrote it. There were tears in his eyes once he finished, and then he kissed the note, longing to touch the other man again.

Immediately, he made arrangements to get to Chicago. It was a four-day trip, but he could bear it. He would bear it, because Arthur was waiting for him. He was going to show that he had changed—that he was back to his old self. He had waited for years for Arthur to just accept the fact that Eames loved him, and finally it had happened. Eames felt that he could finally be himself, and maybe not being himself was the reason why he had succumbed to the power and money. It was what Eames justified in his mind, anyway. He was off, patiently waiting on the train to see his beloved: Arthur Leland.

Everyone at the Chicago Inquirer knew that Arthur was a drunk. It was how he coped with everything in the world. Years ago, he had told Eames that he felt too much pressure. What pressured him? Hiding his sexuality. It was the burden on his shoulders that kept him from being a hundred percent truthful in the world. He had to hide his feelings from Eames; he had to force himself to smile while the other man married two other women. He had to watch as the one he loved so very much lost himself to pride and greed. That had been his breaking point; he couldn't take it any longer, and so he left. After that night when Eames slammed him against the wall, he ran because he knew that Eames would secure him a job in Chicago once he realized what he had done. And that was what had happened. But, Arthur hadn't been finished. He wrote a note to that greedy bastard and sent it along with the promises Eames made when he was twenty-five. It had been nearly twenty years since then. Arthur never expected things to turn out this way, but they had. Now he sat in his office with a bottle of gin as he slaved over the typewriter. He spoke with no one—only focused on his job and nothing else. The others learned not to bother him, lest they want to initiate his drunken fury.

Though, the newcomer knew nothing of this. He knew nothing of Arthur's drinking habits. In his eyes, Arthur was perfect. In his eyes, Arthur could do no wrong (except when he was a _fucking bastard_ who _nagged him about the littlest fucking shit_ and that he needed to _stop ordering Eames around like he was the God of fucking everything_). He trudged toward the office, swinging it open, breathing heavily, eyes wide and arms open. There was silence as Arthur looked up in his drunken haze. They both stared at each other for the longest thirty seconds of each other's life before Arthur got off his ass and ran at full speed into Eames' arms. Charles Foster Eames had made his choice and his choice was Arthur. They hugged and kissed each other, not caring who saw them. It was finally their time to be together. It was their scandal.

Nothing wrong could come from this.

* * *

><p>Limbo. It was usually known as "a place or state of oblivion to which persons or things are regarded as being relegated when cast aside, forgotten, past, or out of date." It was also known as a belief of Catholicism where "a region on the border of hell or heaven, serving as the abode after death of unbaptized infants and of the righteous who died before the coming of Christ." Charles Foster Eames gave it a new meaning. Why? Because he was <em>fucking <em>Charles Foster Eames. Limbo was the name of the vast castle he had built as a paradise for he and Arthur—a getaway from reality so that they could peacefully live together. At Limbo, there would be no gay bashing. At Limbo, they would be hidden from the world.

Arthur stood outside of the grand walls of this … this _masterpiece_ in awe and wonder. It was something never built before in America. One would probably compare it to the pyramids of fucking Egypt. At least, that was what Arthur compared it to. Eames stood at his side, a hand protectively on the small of his back, and whispered into his ear, "This is all ours, love." Arthur turned and kissed him.

At first, it was that paradise that Eames and Arthur hoped it to be. There were so many places to explore, so many secret chambers that they discovered every day. They would sit by the pool, lie in the living room, watch the stars in the observatory, read in the library, kiss in the foyer, have sex in the bedroom… and the bathroom and the library and the observatory and the pool and the foyer. They would laugh at dinner and whisper sweet nothings while cuddled in front of the fireplace. It was perfect. It was their lives—what they had always wanted but could never have. Years upon years had passed, and here they finally were . . . happy.

It wasn't long until everything had been found, and the gloomy castle had lost its initial glow. The sweet nothings stopped, the laughter was long gone, the kissing only occurred during sex, and the sex was rough. There was silence and tension. There were guests and servants, but the house was so _fucking_ empty. Arthur felt like a caged animal waiting to break free. He would stare out of the stained glass windows, trying to remember the world outside of this _fucking _prison. It also wasn't long for Arthur to find the wine cellar, where he now found himself most of the time. He also found that he had a fondness for puzzles; they were the only things that kept him calm when Eames asserted his power over him.

The days turned into months of complete solitude. Arthur had bags under his eyes and was sitting in the living room with a 1000 piece puzzle, putting it together as Eames sat in an armchair across the room. They were silent; the only sound in the room was the crackling fire in the fireplace. Eames cleared his throat, and Arthur stopped. "Why do you always slave over those, Arthur? Do they excite you?" He growled, sinking into the chair.

"They're fine." Arthur responded succinctly.

"Do they make you happy more than I do?"

"No."

"Do I make you happy?"

Arthur was silent.

"**Do I make you happy?**"

"Of course you do, love." Arthur exhaled, turning his attention back to the puzzle.

"Then why do you work on puzzles all of the _fucking _time?"

There was more silence, and then Arthur sat up and glared at him. "Because we don't do anything! We don't mingle with the guests! We just sit here and do nothing. Nothing, Charles! Nothing! You don't want to do anything! Why don't we go to parties? Why don't we get to see civilization? Why do we not explore the world? I've never seen Europe! I've never seen anywhere else besides here!"

"Are you that ungrateful?" Eames said incredulously as he rose from his seat. "Are you really going to act like that, Arthur? I saved you from the outside world. Do you know what they would do to us if they knew we were together? Are you that thick headed? Do you not realize I'm doing this for our safety?" He stood over the smaller man, face shadowed in the low-key lighting of the room.

"I miss the world, Charles." Arthur whispered, finding himself scared of the very man he loved.

"I know you do," Eames softened his expression and leaned down to Arthur's level. He cupped the other's cheek, "I'm just trying to keep us away from those mean people out there."

"You're treating me like a child." Arthur shied away from his touch.

"Because you are!" Eames grabbed him, "You're a grown man, Arthur! And you're cowering away from me!"

"Because you're a monster!" Arthur pushed him back and scrambled away. His heavy breathing was the only sound now as they stood across from each other. Arthur was ready to run on cue, and Eames was ready to pounce. "I'm leaving. I'm done with this, Eames. I'm done being your slave—catering to your will. I want to go travel the world. I'm going. I'm going far away from this place and from _you!"_Arthur's last word echoed throughout the large room. With that, Arthur ran to his room to go grab his things. Eames chased right after him.

Arthur got to his room first and slammed open the door. He instantly grabbed a hold of his luggage and was shoving clothing into it. Eames arrived not too long after him and charged up to him. "You know what I have been _waiting _for, Arthur?" Eames roared, grabbing hold of the smaller man's shoulders. "For fucking years, Arthur, I have been waiting for you to finally love me—to devote yourself to me and only me. I have been fucking waiting for you to be mine, to let me _in_ through those complex walls. And that moment when I finally think I've done it, you say that you're going to leave." And with that, Eames snapped. He backhanded Arthur, sending him tumbling onto the bed.

"Charles!" Arthur yelped as the other jumped on top of him, holding him down. "This is ridiculous! Get off me!" He was not going to be Eames' rag doll that he could just throw around. He fought against the bigger man. This was a lot like their situation years ago—the first time that either of them realized just how blindly in love they were with one another. But now it was bringing on madness—madness that Arthur could not control.

"No!" Eames backhanded Arthur again, trying to get him to be complacent. The nasty little bugger was squirming and screaming under him. Certainly, he would draw attention to this room. Then again, Limbo was fantastically huge. No one would hear him screaming—not even the guests. "You will listen to me! You will love me, Arthur. You are not allowed to leave me!" He smacked him again as he yelled, his mind lost in blinding rage.

"You've gone crazy!" Arthur screamed at him, trying to claw him in the face. This was not the Charles Foster Eames he had fallen in love with. This was a monster—a cruel monster that had been corrupted with power. "Charles, let me go! Let me go now—_stop it!" _He could feel the tears in his eyes as the other hit him again. His cheeks were burning, and his heart was racing. He was not going to win this battle. Eames pinned his wrists down to the bed, breathing heavily, as Arthur stopped his struggle. There was no winning this; Eames was physically stronger than him. They both just stared into each other's eyes. This did mirror their first encounter in the office all those years ago. Twenty years later, everything was fucked up. Arthur was dry sobbing, unable to control it. His mind had deteriorated over the years due to his depression, which led to his alcohol addiction, and he lost control of those emotions that he had been able to hide in his younger days. So, now, here he was, forty-five years old and sobbing like a young child.

"You will listen to me," Eames hissed, leaning in close to Arthur's ear. "You will be mine." He tightened his grip on the other's wrists before kissing down the other's neck. He was angry and aroused, and Arthur was now at his mercy. He felt the smaller man struggle and pushed him down into the bed more to get him to stop.

"If you do this, I will be gone by the morning."

"-I will tie you down if I have to!"

"Stop—stop it, Charles. Please!"

"No! Now will you stop struggling before I have to gag you? I don't want to be the bad guy here, Arthur, but you've given me no choice!"

"You never were like this." Arthur let out a moan as the other bit down on his neck hard. Eames had both of his wrists in one hand and was slowly unbuttoning his shirt. "You used to be a good man."

"And you used to love me."

"I loved who you were, not who you've become."

"I'm still the same." Eames growled, looking down into Arthur's frightened eyes. He stopped for just a moment, gazing into those glassy brown hues. Tears were threatening to fall from those majestic orbs, and if they did fall then his porcelain cheeks would be tear-streaked and those eyes would become reddened and puffy. He had never seen Arthur this scared before in his entire life knowing him. The even more frightening part about this was that it was he, **Eames**, that Arthur was afraid of. At the realization, Eames let go of other man's wrists and moved away, watching him as if he were a fragile thing about to shatter. "No, I am not the same." Eames found himself murmur quietly as he moved to give Arthur some more space. "No." He was in some sort of trance now, lost from the world around him. This gave Arthur ample time to escape, but Eames could hear the sobs on the man's way out.

* * *

><p>Arthur decided not to stay—that it was not safe in Limbo. He was right not to since Eames had become a monster. They did not speak for another twenty years, leaving the tension unresolved between them. Eames was finally on his deathbed, gazing up at the high ceiling of the room in his masterpiece. He had gotten the life he always dreamed of when he was a wee lad in the ghettos of London. That life was far behind him. He had become a powerful man in society and had made an impact on the world. He had more money than he knew what to do with and a fortress fit for a fucking king.<p>

However, he had never found happiness.

No. Eames argued in his own mind. He had experienced happiness for a very brief time in his life, and that life had been with a man named Arthur Leland—his closest friend and dearest companion. He could still remember those eyes, that smile, . . .the bruises on his arms and tears in his eyes. Grown men should never have to cry, but he had made Arthur do just that. He had driven the other man far, far away. He never knew what became of Arthur Leland, nor did he even know if he was still alive. For all Eames knew, Arthur could have drunk himself to death years ago after their final altercation. At this thought, Eames felt weak. He could have had it all, but he allowed himself to be lost in the transaction of life.

"Arthur," he whispered softly as the nurse came in. There had been a snow globe in his hand—a remembrance of a time when he and Arthur went skiing years ago, when they were still boys. His arm suddenly became limp, and the snow globe fell from his hand. It dropped onto the rug next to the bed but then slowly rolled to the hard floor, where it smashed to pieces. Eames' pupils dilated, and he exhaled his last breath. The nurse came over and checked his pulse, only to discover the obvious. She placed the blanket over his head and went to inform the rest of the house staff so that they could get a doctor over to confirm it. A few days later, Charles Foster Eames' death was all over the news.

The day after Eames' last word was revealed, Arthur Leland was found dead in his home in a pool of blood with a bullet in his head.

_Finis._


End file.
